


Replication

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural, Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Supernatural/Transformers crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was pretty sure that was definitely not where he had parked the Impala. (SPN/Transfomers crossover.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Replication

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007.

It’s the fourth night in a row they’ve been out searching for any traces of an honest to God Black Dog, for once, and every night they’ve come back to the motel empty-handed and frustrated and utterly sweat-soaked from the humidity, even though it’s the middle of the freaking night. Dean’s pretty sure he’s  _tired of this shit_.   
  
So as dusk settles and another night begins, he slams the Impala’s door shut a little harder than he intended to, maybe, and tells Sam, “I’m tired of this shit.”  
  
“Too bad,” Sam says, with a shrug.  
  
Even his palms are sweaty, making the sawed-off handle a little harder to grip, good Christ, so Dean’s sure to be extra alert as they stalk through the wooded area where the reports had indicated.   
  
Around one in the morning, or thereabouts, nothing but very non-lethal and very non-Black Dog-like rabbits and squirrels frolicking through the woodlands, or whatever, presenting themselves, and Dean’s pretty sure that nothing in the entire world sucks as much as this hunt. He just wants a burger. And maybe some Pay-Per-View. Instead, they’re playing Hillbilly Hunter in the middle of the fucking night.   
  
Suddenly (and always “suddenly,” and always louder than hell, especially when the woods had been deathly quiet, and Dean always just  _hates_  that) there’s a loud rumbling from above, and they crane their necks to try to look through the trees just in time to see a streaking fireball sailing over them and landing somewhere west of them with an even louder boom that makes the ground around them rumble in protest.   
  
They glance at each other, mirrored looks of furrowed browns and down turned mouths.  
  
“Meteor?” Dean asks.  
  
“Meteorite,” Sam automatically corrects. “And maybe.”  
  
“We should probably. You know.” Dean scratches a mosquito bite on his neck, of all places. “Go check it out. Make sure it isn’t the aliens. Or Superman.  _He_  could probably find the Black Dog.”   
  
“No,” says Sam. “We need to stick around here. Make sure it doesn’t come out while we have our backs turned.” Dean stares at Sam with his patented Ruiner-Of-Everything-Fun glare.   
  
“This stupid thing isn’t showing, Sam. Even if it is a real Black Dog this time. Seriously, man, let’s just get out of here. There’s nothing here.”   
  
And, oh, just when Sam’s about to open his mouth to protest, there it is, a deep rumbling growl coming from just behind them, and if that’s not bad enough, it’s in  _stereo_ , which means—  
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Sam hisses.  
  
Not one. Three. Three Black Dogs, probably freaked from the giant fireball in the sky and coming to investigate, and they both just so happen to be in their way. Fucking  _divine intervention_ , Dean thinks.  
  
They both fire off a round, and that just seems to piss off the Dogs more, if anything. Without warning they tear howling and foaming at Sam and Dean, who decide that standing their ground just won’t cut it when they’re outnumbered.   
  
Dean’s got a pretty steady mantra of swears and curses flowing that matches the cadence of each jump over a dead stump or dodging of braches, and Sam is nearly doing the same, accompanied by an occasional shot over his shoulder with the sawed-off. They’re nearly running blind, hoping,  _praying_  that this was the direction the car was in, into the clearing and down the hill a ways.  
  
So when they stumble into the clearing, Dean stops short, Sam nearly running into him and sending them both tumbling, because that’s definitely  _not_  where Dean had parked the Impala.   
  
It gets even better when the car revs its own engine, all by itself, and shoots the driver and passenger doors open like some sort of gesture of open arms, like safety provided within.   
  
And at this point it  _really was_ , because the Black Dogs were coming up behind them faster than Dean would have liked, but all he can manage is, “Holy shit. Holy  _shit_.”   
  
The car revs up a final time and comes speeding towards them, as if impatient, but both Sam and Dean are more than a little freaked out about their transportation suddenly having a mind of it’s own, and trying to save  _their_  asses for a change, and so they run, and keep running away from both the demonic car and demonic dogs, because really, that just seems best.   
  
The Impala flies past them, though, looking as if it’s going to hit the trees, but that’s when things go from weird to absolute batshit insane.  
  
It happens in one quick moment, all fluid motion and the grinding and mechanical whirring of change, and suddenly Sam and Dean are looking at some gigantic  _thing_ , all details of what used to be the Impala now in the form of a gigantically huge  _robot_.   
  
“Jesus,” Dean stutters breathlessly. “Jesus  _Christ_.”  
  
They watch, frozen to the spot, as the Black Dogs come tearing through the edge of the woods and nearly slam head on into the huge freaking  _robot_ , what the hell, which at any other time would have probably been the most hilarious thing ever, except for the fact that Dean’s a little preoccupied trying not to have a panic attack. The Dogs look about as stunned as Dean feels, knowing a threat when they see one and yet still trying to track the scent that led to tasty human flesh. But the thing, it seems, had other ideas, and moving with more speed than he would have given it credit for, it stomps decisively down on one of the three, the sickening crunch of bones echoing through the clearing. The other two yelp, but before they can even so much as scurry away with their tails between their legs, there’s another sound of mechanical whirring, and suddenly the things  _hand_ becomes a fucking  _cannon_ , and it fires, blasting away the remaining two Black Dogs like there was nothing to it. The explosions are still ringing in Dean’s ears when the dust settles, the grass around the charred remains of the Black Dog’s bodies singed and still crackling, and holy mother of God, Dean really needs to sit down right now.   
  
The giant-robot-that-used-to-be-Dean’s-baby swings around from where it had been perfecting the art of destruction and looks down at the both of them, and Dean’s man enough to admit that he latches on to Sam’s shirt and scrambled backwards, both of them nearly falling right on their asses, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when facing a huge Black-Dog-killing robot machine?  
  
“You’re welcome,” the thing says.  
  
Of course it talks. Of course it does.  
  
That doesn’t stop Dean from gripping Sam’s shirt even harder and groaning, “Sam. My car is  _talking_  to us.”  
  
“Sam?” the thing says, bending down a little closer to them. “Are you Sam Witwicky?”   
  
“Ah,” Sam says, a little more than flustered at being directly spoken to. “No? I mean, no. I’m not.”   
  
“Do you know him? Do you know where he is?”   
  
“Can’t say we do,” Dean responds faintly.  
  
It looks down on them for a long moment, considering, and Dean prays to all things listening that  _his car_  won’t suddenly find them useless and disposes of them the same way it did the Black Dogs.  
  
“If you are not in need of my assistance any longer,” it finally says, “then I will be going.”   
  
It suddenly hits Dean that the thing’s voice sounds like some kind of mechanical distortion of James Hetfield, and oh, if that wasn’t the greatest thing  _ever_ , but then it’s last words finally process and Dean can’t help but let a little panic slip out, because huge-ass robot or not, this thing is his  _baby_.  
  
“Hey! Hey, wait!” He runs after the thing, clearly positive he’s gone insane, after this point. It stops and turns, looking back down at him, appearing completely apathetic. “You can’t—you can’t just  _leave_ , after all these years! What are Sam and I gonna do for a car  _now_ , huh? And what do you mean, ‘your assistance’? We almost kinda had those Black Dogs in the bag, before you showed up.”   
  
“Your car is safe, down the hill where you left it,” it says, and Dean’s nine kinds of confused now.   
  
“So, you, wait. I thought—I thought you  _were_  my car?”  
  
“Replication,” it says simply, as if that explains everything. “I don’t pass up something like that when I see it.”  
  
“Oh,” Dean says.  _Oh._  Because that sums things up quite nicely, right? “Well, uh, thanks, I guess.”   
  
“As I said before, you’re welcome.” It turns again, then, and Dean’s really unable to do anything else but watch it as it goes. He does admit, however, that it is pretty cool when it reaches the edge of the road and transforms fluidly back into a car,  _his_  car, moonlight gleaming on the glossy black steel.   
  
Sam comes up behind him, and they trudge together down the hill to the Impala, right where it had been left. Dean breathes a manly sigh of relief.  
  
“So,” Sam says after they’ve slid inside, the doors creaking shut. “Interesting night.”   
  
“You could say that,” Dean replies. “I dunno, though. We’ve seen our fair share of weird stuff. Think this takes the cake?” Sam shakes his head, chuckling.  
  
“She’s your car, man.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting the Impala into gear. “I always thought there was more to her than meets the eye.” 


End file.
